


The Ramblings of a Teenage Intellectual

by in_a_different_box_to_you



Series: A Very Persistent Illusion [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, High School, London, M/M, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Redbeard - Freeform, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2676830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_a_different_box_to_you/pseuds/in_a_different_box_to_you
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor Trevor does not quite fit with the modern world that he inhabits. He goes with the flow, never quite living life for himself, watching his mental family as if it is a sitcom and obsessing over the boy he sits next to in registration. Until, by chance, he makes a connection with a fellow human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work and I don't know what I am doing. The opinions expressed are solely those of my interpretation of the Victor Trevor character.  
> Sherlock and Victor belong to BBC Sherlock and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

When I was nine I broke Jesus.

Mother had bullied me and my brother into alter serving for Easter Mass. We left home early and drove to church. After we’d gone into the antechamber and pulled the cream robes over our heads and spun the fraying chord like a centrifuge several times - because we could - the priest, Father Michael, warned us to stay away from the crucifix, which was lying propped up against the table. Upright it would have come up to my shoulder. It was a wooden cross with a porcelain christ.

James dragged me out into the nave with the taper to light the candles on the alter. We entertained ourselves by passing our fingers through the centre of the flames until one of the elderly members of the congregation turned up and began to quote the scriptures at us. We raced back down the isle until James tripped on the hem of his robe and I past him.

I pelted through the doorway, something hard hit my shin and then I was curled on the ground, my knee throbbing. Father Mikkel was yelling and a small white arm lay, hand twisted in agony, on the stone, and I thought I was going to Hell.

Not like fire and damnation hell, more an abstract concept of ‘God doesn’t love me’. Which is absurd, because that is the point of Him/Her.

Church was hard because I didn’t have the right hair. Everyone could see my blasphemous face. I have the right hair now. Fringes are brilliant: you can swing them over your face, and then you look like ‘The Thing’ from… something. According to my mother. Although, I am not sure she should be trusted, because she used to say ‘pacifically’ instead of ‘specifically’ and ‘just’ instead of ‘gist’. I am surprised I have a quantifiable literacy level.

So yes, now I have the right hair. I can hide in plain sight in class, although it makes my face itch. It is worse when you have glasses because your hair gets trapped beneath them, next to your eyes and they start to itch. Its like having long, curly eyelashes. Like snakes that lick your eyeballs.

School is dull. We are all obsessive, materialistic and manic: It is like a mental hospital for the undiagnosed. We all love categories, as though defining ourselves will mean that we will exist - we don’t, according to Douglas Adams, my current favourite author. I am a ‘geek,’ apparently. No one asked me whether I wanted to be one, although I am not sure what the alternative would be. I think I dug that hole when I managed to top Sherlock Holmes and take dux of the school. That was an awkward registration class. I sit next to him. I am not sure how this happened, although it may be to do with the fact that I was late on the first day, there was only one chair left and he has… a reputation.

Sherlock doesn’t care about social constructs like exam results and prize givings. He is actually really awesome, almost in the literal meaning of the word. He is a genius, and just about functions as a human being. Apparently the brain is everything and all other aspects of his identity is just ‘transport.’ I suppose being good looking and having epic hair gets him places. It doesn’t stop our classmates from despising him. He has been given more labels than the rest of us put together.

We have had four verbal conversations, in which he has spoken seventeen-point-five words (I am not sure if a groan counts as a word), which is, incidentally, my age. Today is my ‘half birthday.’ Father made me a cup cake before going to the lab this morning, still wearing his ‘Miranda’ apron. His colleagues call him eccentric. My family call him odd. He works in chemical engineering, although according to Sherlock he is actually a secret agent.  
Sherlock used eight of his words to deduce this from my appearance before I even sat down that first time. This is another reason why he is an awesome human being - he sees things that no one else I have ever met could ever observe. ‘It’s genius’ as Noel Fielding would say. Sherlock would hate Noel Fielding. Sometimes this fact makes me sad.

My best friend, Cassandra, (who, currently, is under the impression that I am homosexual and keeps trying to discuss ‘hot’ celebrities to whom I can only feel an aesthetic attraction. It makes me quite uncomfortable: should she really know stuff like… that at her age?) thinks I should just ‘ask him out, already.’ I would, if if it were not for the fact that:

1\. He is probably aromantic  
2\. If he isn’t then he will want to be with either a genius or someone who he can control and almost definitely someone who he can sleep with (complete with the connotations)  
3\. I am a coward

Cassandra says I am an idiot. I dispute this; all the evidence suggests that I am on a fast track to Oxbridge.


	2. Chapter 2

This morning two men in black suits and ties appeared and stood across the road. One of them had binoculars and kept pointing them towards the upstairs window. Father closed the curtains and went across the back garden and through the hedge to avoid them on the way to work. The men stayed there until dinner time, when one of their hats blew off and they both chased it up the road. I told Sherlock and he says that it is probably a secret service thing. 

I don’t count his words anymore, partly because Cassandra said it was creepy, but mostly because I lost count. To be fair, I was immersed in the work of William Blake and Sherlock was waxing lyrically about how dull poetry is and I couldn’t concentrate - something had to be sacrificed. It didn’t help that someone was playing an abominable pop song in the background. The only good thing that came of this was that Sherlock and I complained simultaneously and exclaimed our love for the Baroque composers. He then uprooted the teacher from her desk and found Bach’s ‘Bourrée in E minor’ on YouTube. All this seemed to alarm our classmates, probably because we are normally the introverted geeks in the corner.  
“And I give you: Real Music.” Sherlock waved his arms around dramatically.  
“Ah… Baroque…” I mock-swooned and he grinned. To the class’ bemusement we then proceeded to give them a musical education that ended in a heated argument over the relative merits of Bach and Vivaldi which ended in Sherlock killing the sound system by playing Bach’s ‘Allegro’ on maximum volume before flouncing from the room. The teacher, who had been perfectly happy when the controversy had been light hearted, seemed to think that our behaviour was ‘out of order.’ The Bach Loving Prat left me to face her amateur dramatics. We both have detention on Friday. According to Cassandra this is a good thing and having a disciplinary record makes me a ‘real person.’ I would argue that what makes me a ‘real person’ is my ability to contemplate my own existence, but she’s just weird that way. 

On the train home Sherlock texted me: 

Tell Mrs S I am unavailable on Friday, VLT.  
SH

He must have pick-pocketed me at some point and got my phone number. It’s quite sweet actually, in a creepy sort of way. I am unsure about his use of acronyms though: I don’t have a middle name. 

VLT? The entire point of detention is that you miss whatever you would have been doing.  
VT

Vivaldi Loving Twat. Why?  
SH

Don’t apply logic to the ideas of human beings, BLP.  
VT

Human beings are boring. It doesn’t work.  
SH

All of them? Have a favourite composer whose surname begins with an ’s’ then.  
VT

Sebastian Loving Halfwit?  
VT

There are some exceptions. My initials are 'W.S.S.H'  
SH

I am now wasting my life googling synonyms.  
VT

My brother is an imbecile.  
SH

My brother is adorable.  
VT

That must be nice for you.  
SH

Not especially, my parents give him all the things they failed to give me.  
VT

My parents gave me to him for his birthday one year.  
SH

That’s… disturbing.  
VT

Agreed.  
SH

The world keeps disappearing. ‘Night  
VT

Oh, and Sherlock - you could have just asked for my number, you know.  
VT

I have a reputation to uphold. Good night, Victor.  
SH


	3. Chapter 3

Vivaldi cannot drown out the sound of mother yelling up the stairs. I have apologised civilly, profusely and sincerely, however she seems to take my receiving of a detention as a personal insult. It doesn’t help that her voice has to be even louder and shriller to compete with ‘The Archers’ on the radio. 

Sherlock didn’t turn up for school on Friday at all, and he is not answering my texts. James, who has spent the morning baking biscuits with father, is certain that Sherlock’s theory is correct and father is a member of the secret service. Apparently I should make sure that they haven’t abducted Sherlock for knowing classified information: James watches an unhealthy number of thrillers. 

*  
Sherlock turned up at about one o’clock. He climbed through my window, having deduced my address from the colour and texture of the mud on my shoes sometime during this week. He had spent yesterday and last night avoiding the wrath of his brother who is, according to Sherlock, ‘The British Government.’ Apparently it is frowned upon to hack a government server and change the desktop background to a yellow smiley face. He is now lying low in my bedroom complaining about the contents of my iTunes library. He came down for a biscuit whilst we ate lunch and drank some earl grey. My mother’s anger didn’t stretch to confronting a guest and she became preoccupied with practically force-feeding him.  
“You’re practically a rake, dear. No wonder you’re so pale.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mother somehow missed this and turned on me. “Victor. Victor - Eat that.”  
“You know I can’t eat fresh pasta, Mother. It’s got milk in it.”  
“No, I don’t care if it’s not vegan.”  
“You’re making me exploit fellow creatures just because I got detention?”  
“The exploitation of animal kind will just have to be on your shoulders, won’t it. Should have thought about that.” She stuck a loaded fork under my nose and, for fear of being speared, I gave up.  
Sherlock’s bored look switched into that of mock-outrage. “You KILLED the cows, TLV!” I snorted into my pasta, much to the bemusement of my mother. 

My family doesn’t know of Sherlock’s exploits and it is probably best if my parents don’t find out. Sherlock simply sat at the table trying, halfheartedly, to appear a normal human being. My father, however, has a lot less self control. He howled mournfully along to one of Shostakovich’s operas which some poor soul had chosen for radio 3, conducted by James, who had eaten an excessive number of biscuits and was high on sugar. He finds Sherlock fascinating. I had to glare at James very obviously to stop him asking questions about how Sherlock knows our father’s ‘true identity’ and whether he had been abducted yesterday. 

Sherlock and I retreated back to my room at the earliest opportunity. I found some episodes of ‘The Mighty Bush’ that YouTube hadn’t taken down yet and we lay side by side on the bed. It took five minutes for Sherlock to pronounce the whole series ‘insane to the point of being dangerous,’ with a yawn, a phrase he normally uses with great enthusiasm. 

“I don’t understand what you see in this…” He gestured wildly with his hand as The Moon imparted some words of wisdom.  
“It’s genius. You just lack an open mind.” He snorted and threw ‘Cordelia: Villain or Heroine?’ at me. The irony appeared to be lost on him. He lacks the attention span for Shakespeare. “Be it lawful I take up what’s cast away!” I placed the book back on my bedside table and grinned. He groaned and buried his head in the pillow.

Eventually lack of sleep caught up with him and his body went slack whilst Naboo and Bollo stood in their cage, awaiting their execution. I buried myself in ‘The Mind’s Eye’ and refrained from watching Sherlock sleep because that would by creepy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter might have actually worked out alright, eventually.

Sherlock woke me up at about four in the morning. He licked my lip. I am not going to ignore how weird that was. His excuse was that it was the most energy efficient way to raise me as it required the least amount of movement. The problem is that I would very much like to kiss him and a small deluded part of me hopes that maybe this was a sign that, at least subconsciously, he would like the same thing. Sherlock is not very good with emotions. He would probably be placed on the autism spectrum by any psychiatrist - they also have an obsession with labels. He got quite disturbed by my alarm, confusion and angst after I had managed to stumble over him to open the window and get some fresh air. This is odd because Sherlock was perfectly unaffected and continued to lap up the cream on his hot chocolate when we saw a video of man amputating his own finger in lunchtime anatomy club: He doesn’t get disturbed. 

“Look, I won’t do it again. Please… just go back to normal.” He stood and held out a hand, which was shaking.   
“Shit, Sherlock. Are you okay?” I thought: ‘normal,’ what’s my normal? And why the hell would anyone want that?  
“I’m not the one who was all…” He waved the hand as though displaying emotion equated as serious as some kind of fit in his mind. “Can we move on?” His voice rose defensively. He stood stock still in the middle of my room. 

I grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the window. “I want to show you something.” I clambered onto the sill, turned to face the slanting wall of slates and balanced. I placed one foot on the flat surface above them and heaved myself onto the rooftop. I come up here when I don’t want to be stuck with twenty first century humanity anymore, when this hypocritical, meaningless and futureless society gets too much and I need a distraction so that I can refrain from setting fire to the city and watching it turn to dust. On the roof suburbia and London and Great Britain and Earth disappear. Only reality matters, not the mundane illusions of man. When it is still dark, like this moment,the clouds form curtains around a stage of stars and the light from my window casts a dim glow. 

Sherlock emerged from my room and lay down next to me. The wind lifted our hair and clothes and ruffled the trees. A raven croaked hoarsely somewhere below. “Will you come back with me, if I go home?” He sounded anxious, like he was afraid I would be freaked out again.   
“So you do not have to face the full wrath of,” I air-quoted, “‘The British Government’ alone?”   
“He might be less likely to have my incarcerated.”  
“Sure, I’ll come and see what is probably a castle that you call a house and try to negotiate your peaceful release from a safe distance as your brother tries to flay you, it might be fun.”  
“Twat.”   
I laughed. “You love that I am.”   
I could here distant traffic from the by-pass and a siren from the city centre infiltrate the silence. I thought that the conversation must have ended. “I do, VLT.” Sherlock sounded like he was terribly confused be this fact. He also sounded so terribly vulnerable that I stopped breathing. “Victor?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Your cells require oxygen for respiration.”   
“You were listening!”  
“That information may have been useful, if I ever decide to investigate human metabolism. I simply show disinterest so that Mr Mason does not think that what he is saying is interesting and delude himself into thinking he is a good teacher.   
“Why didn’t you just listen in first year when we learnt all this the first time?”  
“I did. I deleted it accidentally after a rather boring compulsory physics lesson.”  
“You do know your insane?”  
“I prefer the term ‘intelligent.’ I rather think that the former suits you better.”  
“Prat.”  
“You’ve been watching repeats of that absurdly unrealistic television programme again, haven’t you?”  
“‘Merlin’ is fantasy, it is meant to be unrealistic.”  
“It is a heavily disguised exploration of an insecure asexual character with a ridiculous amount of allegories piled into it.” I suddenly felt irrationally angry.   
“Its a kids show Sherlock, with wizards and dragons, because that is what children like and it is based on the legends of King Arthur. Oh God, please tell me you knew that.”  
“The information was irrelevant.” How could he sound so bored?  
“And, if Merlin is asexual, which is an idea that I have never considered before, then it is the first time I know about that we’ve been represented in british television and I can never see that as a bad thing.” I clinched my fists, not sure what to expect after I had ‘come out.’   
The silence lasted so long that I looked over at him and Sherlock was grinning at me. I glared at him to make it stop because it was rather alarming. “You said ‘we’ve’ - you’re like me?”   
“Ah,” I had been, sort of, right,“I was pretty certain that sexual relations might appear illogical to you.”  
“Scientifically: no. Socially: obviously.” He rolled over me, placing a hand on either side of my head. I looked up at him nervously. He was looking at me as though I was a specimen for experimentation.   
“I- I would have thought that you could have deduced my sexuality already.” Sherlock mumbled something. “What?”  
“I haven’t worked how to do sexualities that yet, all right? It’s complicated.” I laughed, suddenly not nervous, and pressed my forehead into his shoulder. “Shut up.” Is voice rumbled against my skin.

He curled his body around me as the sun began to rise. I realised how cold my body had become and I huddled closer.   
“Victor?” I ignored him. A branch creaked. 

“Victor.”  
“Sherlock.” I granted him little more than a murmur.  
“You do know that you can’t sleep out here? It would be utterly pointless - your body will expend an excessive number of calories in order to keep your enzymes at optimum temperature-”  
“Shut up, Sherlock.” He did. I felt drowsiness gradually overtake me. Then I remembered something. I snorted with laughter. “I can’t believe you actually licked me.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's house in reality is the Millennium Mayfair Hotel (go with it) because I have only been to London once and it was the only viable google images result for Mayfair.
> 
> Smilers: http://img3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20100715071007/geonosis/images/e/e1/Beast_below_smiler-1-.jpg

Sherlock woke me up by placing my breakfast on my chest. Or he tried to, but I rolled over and he had to save it from spilling over the slates and he hit me across the forehead instead. I was too tired to complain and didn’t really notice what I was eating until I realised that there was something very hot, very cold and very crunchy in my bowl. Upon closer inspection it contained bran flakes, vanilla ice cream, hot chocolate and salt-and-vinegar crisps. It wasn’t as bad as you’d think, so long as you avoided the soggy remnants of the cereal and to be honest I was too cold to care what I ingested. 

“Inept idiotic fool.” Sherlock didn’t appear to be cold at all. He had probably been inside for ages, being fed porridge by my mother and feeding her lies about my slobbing in bed, whilst I lay there, going hypothermic. On second thoughts, he is more likely to just be from the other side of a different universe.

“Strange, unnatural weirdo.” My lips felt like they have been vibrating around the reed of a clarinet for a century. 

“Are you going to start behaving rationally now?”

“I’ll think about it. Somewhere warm.”

My parents had left for work by the time Sherlock and I had shifted my frozen body inside. Yesterday’s clothes clung to my limbs and his hand on my arm radiated heat and life like Christ’s hand on a leper. Once inside my room I grabbed my laptop (and the cold metal felt warm) handed it in the general direction of Sherlock’s hands and dismissed him from current considerations. I turned towards the wardrobe and thought about the whole concept of meeting the boy-I-like-very-much’s brother. I picked out a yellow patterned shirt, blue sleeveless jumper, black skinny jeans and my favourite suit blazer. Buttons proved a problem and I toasted my fingers on the radiator upon intervals. I thought my toes would break off like in that scene from ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ as I manipulated them into stripy socks (one two different shades of grey, the other pink and lilac). 

I collected Sherlock from where he had settled on top of the kitchen table, researching anthropomorphic biopegy, and pulled on my shoes. Sherlock had apparently teleported here yesterday, so I lent him father’s bike and told him ‘lead on.’ We ignored the two men in black suits and ties who, according to Sherlock, ‘belong’ to his brother. 

I soon learned two things: Sherlock lives in Mayfair, his family appears to own a whole block; and Sherlock cannot ride a bicycle. We soon abandoned Father’s old commuter in amongst the tangle surrounding a row of bike racks, hoping it wouldn’t get nicked. I steered and peddled my bike as sherlock perched on the pannier rack, clung to my waist and panicked - an arrangement that looks a lot easier in films. Horns blared as I attempted to signal with one arm, became unbalanced and swerved into the road. Sherlock screamed and I think I burst an eardrum. 

Lines of red bricks, towers of windows and pillars loomed ahead as we crossed the park. The tree lined avenue lead directly to the steps of two large doors. We swerved the eagle topped column and dodged between the bollards before clattering onto the pavement. 

Sherlock staggered off the back and I propped the bike underneath a window, catching sight of a massive sparkling chandelier through its panes. “Sherlock, exactly how loaded are you?” I stretched my head to see more of the room. A man who I was certain was dressed the victorian garb of a butler was dusting a large painting on the far wall, the subject of which was a man with sharp features leaning dramatically on an umbrella, baring a passing resemblance to Sherlock. 

Sherlock didn’t reply, so I turned around. The man from the painting stood in between the two open doors and he looked livid. He was doing quite an accurate impression of the third face of the smilers from the Doctor Who episode, ‘The Beast Below.’ Sherlock wore his ‘nothing you say can possibly impress me’ expression that often made appearances at school and usually got him detention. 

“Do you have ANY idea what you have done?” 

I connected the dots but the image did not become immediately clear, that or a drunk had begun designing puzzles for children. “You’re his brother? Wow, I didn’t realise there was such an age gap.” 

Sherlock laughs, “Brother dear, your wait gain makes you look older that ever. What will Mother say?” The brother’s face became a mask before his eyes flickered over me.

“Brother dear, if you wish to lose your virginity I would suggest you sleep with someone who is not asexual, and bring a change of clothes.”

“Brother dear, if you wish to eat two extra tea buns with four - no five - glacé cherries and excessive volumes of royal icing I would suggest that you exercise some ‘leg work.’”

“Brother dear, if you wish to hack a server storing state secrets VITAL to the survival of our democracy, I suggest you consider the consequences before you get better acquainted with the interior of a prison cell. What would Mummy say?”

“Its nice to meet you, Mr Holmes.” Both brothers turned to look of me so I smiled pleasantly. “My name is Victor Trevor.” I held out a hand, which was stared at and ignored until I felt quite sorry for it and hid it in my pocket. “Now maybe we could solve this on the other side of that door?” I tilted my head towards the coach load of American tourists in I Heart London T-shirts who were pointing a number of SLRs in our direction. The brother stared at my face now, glanced at the Americans and then turned and marched inside. Sherlock grinned at me, which was rather like the sun emerging from behind thundering clouds, and we followed him into the building. 

The walls were carpeted. The hall appeared to also be a gallery devoted to photographs and paintings of the brother and occasionally his parents. Sherlock appeared only once in a family shot including about twenty relatives. It was obviously quite dated. In the bottom row of forward-facing heads his seven year old face was turned away so that it was hidden behind his dark curls. I felt a wave of sorrow as I looked up at the present Sherlock behind me. “I don’t like to be photographed.” He gave me a slight smile. “This-” He waved a hand at is face, “-is just transport.” 

“It is the face the rest of the world sees.” The brother leaned against the red carpet, so that I had to take a moment to work out that he was still in the vertical. He looked genuinely concerned. “You cannot pretend that it does not exist.” 

Sherlock snorted. “Is mother in?”

“Upstairs. And, Sherlock? It has been agreed that you will complete a month of community service, in a form that will be useful to the country.”

“Useful to you, Mycroft, isn’t that what you mean?”

“Watch your step, Mr Trevor.” Without looking at me, the brother turned and exited through a door that I deduced lead to the room decorated with his portrait.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Sherlock plays: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b5fmSVA4GA0

We took a door to the left at the end of the hall and came into the room of a curving staircase, leading up to countless landings like stacked blocks. Sherlock began to ascend four stairs at a time. We clattered onto the third floor and he stopped in front of an half-way open doorway. He turned and bit his bottom lip.   
“It is sort of a tip, I have a dog-”  
“I don’t care, Sherlock. Well, obviously I care that you have a dog, dogs are awesome, but…”  
Sherlock grinned and bounced into his room and was immediately flattened by a red streak. I laughed and he scowled at me from the pile of papers he was lying in, being licked and thumped by a red setter. I crouched next to them and the dog abandoned Sherlock and leapt up, placing a paw on each of my knees and beating him with its tail.   
“Hey, what are you called then?”   
Sherlock staggered to his feet and tossed some papers back onto the heap.   
“He’s called Redbeard.” I looked up at him doubtfully. He shrugged and looked down at Redbeard. “I wanted to be a pirate.”  
I buried my laughs in the fur at the top of Redbeard’s head. “I wanted to be a detective, but I didn’t call my eel Morse.”  
“You had an eel. I am disappointed in you VLT, I deduced you would have some kind of koi.”   
“No, because unlike you, I do not have the money or space for an aquarium in my room.”  
Sherlock turned around as if to check that his room was the same size as he remembered. He looked back at me. “You didn’t name it Vivaldi, did you?”  
“Antonio,” I told Redbeard because Sherlock had placed his hands together in a prayer position over his nose and mouth to stifle his laughter. 

Now that I had a chance to look at it, Sherlock’s room was massive. One wall was made up of a series of sash windows, coated in yellow grime around the edges, that let in a washed out light. The wall paper was totally obscured by papers, photographs and diagrams. These formed one massive web of information, connected by red tapes that spanned corners of the room. From the light fitting at the centre, the ceiling was covered in notes in tiny handwriting and what appeared to be some kind of number code. Small doodles and a maze of arrows punctuated the text. 

Upon closer inspection, many of the photographs displayed different body parts, presumably of corpses, if the amount of blood was anything to go by, and the soiled instruments of their demise. One alcove, however, appeared to be devoted to the people (and animals) in Sherlock’s life. There were printed articles about the psychology of dogs, sexuality, sociopathy, psychopathy, the social structure of bees, control complexes, superiority complexes, addiction, the lifespan of red setters, Vivaldi versus Bach - which made me smile - and pirates in the nineteenth century. The papers above his bed mostly consisted of sheet music, with a few sheets of ‘Spring’ which were covered in criticisms and corrections in red pen. A stradivarius lay across his pillow. 

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably behind me and I realised that I was probably the only non-Holmes to step foot in this room. It was probably the closest thing one could get to entering his mind. He coughed. “This is the first room.”  
“The first room?”  
“Of my mind palace.” He scowled at my continued confusion. “Each section extends past the walls into other rooms. They are less physical and more… abstract.”  
I turned slowly around in a circle - this truly was Sherlock Holmes’ brain. 

When I looked back at him he was pale with nervousness. “You play the violin?”  
“Obviously.”  
I rolled my eyes. “Can I…” He shrugged and ambled towards the bed, leaping the last meter and bringing the chin rest up to his neck. 

He plucked a few strings and adjusted a few of the pegs. He then removed his bow from where it had been propped in a waste paper basket and drew it across the strings. The first few notes were jarring. Then it was as if the sharp peaks of ice were being buried under the windswept snow of the melody. Lying down, looking straight up into infinity, the flakes could be seen emerging from so far up in the darkness and then growing closer. The wind howled in anguish and faded as the scene settled and a quiet fell. The music began to gather pace 

Sherlock played with his eyes closed and he did not sway, but moved as if watching something profound that was slipping in and out of his vision. He didn’t finish with a flourish, but let the violin drop to his side and looked at me. 

I had somehow ended up about two feet away from him. My heart started to beat faster as he stepped closer and placed a hand to cup my jaw. I pressed a my palm against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin from beneath his shirt. His face loomed closer. It seemed as if his eyes were going to collide with mine and his nose somehow seemed far larger than was normal. I avoided looking at his lips. 

Focusing on his eyes and observing that there was a whole universe portrayed through them, I realised that we were both panicking. I felt his heart hammering against my hand and looked down at it, managing to tilt my head away at the same moment that he looked up at my forehead to avoid my eyes. The silence pricked my eyes as we both stood frozen and at an apparent dead end. 

I felt a low laugh rumble though his chest as he pulled me closer, wrapped his arms around my shoulders and placed his chin on the top of my hair. I let out a breath, pressed my nose into his collar bone and brought the other hand up so that both could feel the slowing of his pulse. He shifted so that our feet alternated on the floor. His breath tickled my scalp. “Do you surrender to the superior intellect of Johann Sebastian, VLT?” As if we were texting each other from different sides of a city, rather that standing in his mind, embracing, having just almost kissed and had the joint realisation that we found kissing highly disturbing. 

“Mmmm… Music isn’t about intellect, Sherlock, It’s about emotion.”

“Was that yes?”

“Shut up.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is amazing what you can do when you have three exams in the next two days, when it isn't revision, that is.

We didn’t go up to see Sherlock’s mother. I taught him how to dance instead. I honestly thought that he was going to hate it… apparently not. We stood in each other’s arms, turning slowly as Redbeard trotted round us, looking totally bemused. 

“Like this?” 

“Don’t sway so much… ow. Christ.”

“Sorry. You put your foot there.”

“Not MY FAULT, Sherlock.”

“Really, because-”

Sensing a complicated explanation on how I could only have been responsible for Sherlock stamping on my toe, I stopped him. “Okay, okay, I brought this upon myself, you… Git.”

He smirked. “Using mild expletives, you must be in pain.”

“I think that you are enjoying this far two much.”

“Mmmm… when the alternative is explaining to my mother why my brother has arranged to use me for unpaid labor.”

“I get the feeling that communication isn’t big in your family.”

“You could say that, or you should summarise it into ‘we hate each other’” He laughed, then fell silent, starring at the floorboards. 

“Really?”

“Sometimes.”

“Really, because I might feel like I want to perform anthropometric biopegy on my brother but-”

His voice rose to a snap. “Don’t. Normalise me.” Redbeard barked at a pigeon so that it took off from where it had just settled on the windowsill. 

“Alright.” I watched him, awkwardly trying to work out the object and quantity of his anger. “So. Are we going upstairs for judgement day or are you going to wait until she comes to you?”

He looked back up at me. “Neither seems favourable. I think I’ll just stay here where I can touch you. With the door locked.” My God, that grin was predatory. 

“Sweet, and slightly disturbing. We can do that later, come on.” 

I grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the door. He dragged his feet and protested weakly.“If anyone asks, I did not agree to this. I hope you will be willing to take full responsibility for my untimely demise.”

“I will hold my hands up to killing Sherlock Holmes, I expect that would look good on my cv.” I smirked as we clambered up the stairwell, Redbeard bounding after us, his tail wagging. 

“Ha. Ha.”

I grabbed Sherlock’s fist and thwacked it off the door. He shook his hand in the air, muttering, “that hurt.”

“Enter.” A muffled voice came from within. I pushed sherlock into the door so that he had to open it to avoid being crushed. “Ah, Sherlock.” The woman looked up from The Guardian and fixed Sherlock with a Look.

“Mother.” I peered out from behind where he stood in the doorway and tried to not feel awkward as her gaze met mine. I felt the dog pressing his head into the back of my knee in an attempt to get inside. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Sherlock turned slightly towards me, as if only now he remembered my existence.“Mother, this is Victor Trevor.”

I smiled pleasantly and waved. “Hi.”

A small smile graced her features. “Hello.” Looking back at Sherlock, the mothering look returned. “So, Sherlock, why are you and Myc arguing this time?”

“He is being unreasonable, as always.”

“Hmmm.” She tapped the end of her pen against the side of her mouth and looked down at the sudoku in disappointed dismissal. The silence stretched and she looked up expectantly as if to ask, “Yes?” in a condescending manner. 

“Well I may have made a… misjudgement.” Sherlock moved from one foot to the other as his mother raised her eyebrows. “Alright, it was foolish, I knew he would harp on about it. Like a… harp seal.” 

“Very witty, Sherlock.” I muttered under my breath.

“Shut up.” He replied with gritted teeth. He then raised his eyes to his mother’s, “I’m sorry, mother.” 

She beamed. “I should hope so. Lovely to meet you Mr Trevor. I do hope you won’t make him any worse. Honestly, Sherlock, hacking the government? Can you not find something more worthy of you than showing off?”

Sensing that we were dismissed I pocked Sherlock to stop him grumbling and we backed back into the hall.

 

“It was your fault that I had to endure that.” Sherlock sniped as we leapt down the stairs. 

“T’was.” I agreed. 

“Hmmf.” We tumbled through his door and stood in the sunlight that leaked from the edge of the windows. 

“What would you like to do now?”

Sherlock looked around “Take Redbeard out?” Redbeard barked and ran over to collect a slobber coated tennis ball from the top of a pile of ‘New Scientist’ magazines, growling at it before sinking his teeth into the rubber.. 

I laughed. “Alright.”

 

We ambled down to the green, taking turns to toss the ball as far as possible to minimise the amount of times we had to pick it up. Redbeard tossed his head as he approached us before flopping down at our feet, refusing to move. Sherlock attempted to wrestle the ball from his mouth. “Here boy. Come on.” I watched, laughing at Sherlock, who kept falling over as his grip slipped off the slimy ball. 

Eventually we left Redbeard to it and lay down side by side on the grass. Sherlock gasped for breath and he kept turning to scowl at his dog, who chose these moments to look up innocently. “I think… you may have just been beaten by an ‘inferior species.’”

“He will be gloating for weeks.”

“How do dogs gloat?”

“With a large volume of smugness.” I sniggered. “Look, he’s doing it now.” Redbeard dropped the tennis ball and looked at Sherlock, as if saying ‘I dare you.’

I let my head fall back and laughed. “You two are ridiculous. Would you like an ice-cream?”

“I thought you didn’t eat dairy.”

“There’s a vegan kiosk around the corner.”

“Hmmm… Does it actually taste like ice-cream?”

I thought about it. “Not really, but you get used to it.”

“Alright.” I staggered to my feet and tilted my head, looking down at him looking up at me. 

“I’ll just leave you lying here, looking like a fool.” I waved slightly, grinning as I walked backwards, away from him. 

“Fine.” He smirked, then called after me, “I never look like a fool, Trevor.”

I raised my eyebrows, “Sure.” And turned away.


	8. Chapter 8

~~Afterwards~~

After everything that happened that day I think it killed me to see his staring blank face as I stood, rasping for breath, in the doorway. “We have twenty four hour security, I suggest you remove you're person before they catch up.” His voice was cold, emotionless. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Do I know you? I can’t be expected to remember the entirety of the homeless network, my apologies.”

I grasped my hair and looked up at the ceiling. Frustration overcame everything. “FUCK.”

“Are you a simpleton? I’ll give you a tip - best not to yell expletives at strangers.”

“Jesus. Sher- this is your stupid mind palace thing, isn’t it? The cocaine, why? Why the-”

“Look, I don’t know who you are, but I have just lost a great friend so please leave. Now.”

“It’s me! I’m Victor.”

“My _dog._ Please say your not one of those madmen who delude themselves into lifetime friendships with strangers. Oh God, you haven’t been stalking me or something, have you? I do feel like I’ve been missing something. I can’t believe I didn’t notice…”

I ran. Through the stupid mahogany stairways - do they not know about deforestation? - and the bloody carpeted hallway, past the Sherlock-less photographs and his freakish older brother and into the street. 

I stood, panting in the centre of the pavement as crowds parted around me. Through the shifting figures I could see the road. A car honked and I closed my eyes as it sped past. I reckoned I could see a darker red against the black tar. 

 

*

 

I returned with two chocolate cones and loomed above Sherlock. He squinted up at me, half a grin gracing his features, before his face fell. “Where’s Redbeard?”

 I looked around the green beside us. Couples and families lounged on the grass lethargically. There was no sign of movement. “What? He didn’t come with me.” 

Sherlock stood up, brushing blades of foliage of his suit. “He followed you, I presumed he’d catch up.” He turned around, searching the park, before freezing, staring at a point behind me. The sound of blaring horns and yells permitted the air. “Shit. SHIT.” 

I dropped the ice creams and sprinted after him towards the road, where a queue had formed behind a mess of swerving cars and milling pedestrians. By the time I caught up, Sherlock was being held in the air by his collar, a massive skinhead looming over him. Sherlock looked like a broken doll, swinging from a huge hand. His face was contorted, his eyes wild. “You murderer. You _evil murderer._ ”

“What did you call me, you fucking ponce? You’re stupid mutt ran out in front of my van.” Spit sprayed across Sherlock’s hair. “I’m suing for this, dumb thing’s left a fucking dint across the front.”

I stared helplessly at where Redbeard’s body was spread out across the tarmac, his head bludgeoned in. His rusty fur was matted in blood from his back legs as well. It began to dawn on me what Sherlock had seen. 

I stared, uncomprehending, at this brainless thug who had thought it was his job to destroy a beautiful creature, at the boy that I was pretty certain I had fallen in love with, as his heart broke. “They could have fixed him. They could have kept him alive. Why?” 

“Jesus! It’s just a fucking dog.” He seriously did not understand. 

“And you’re just an ignorant, soulless nobody.” I turned, facing the approaching traffic before skidding to the other side. The man growled, dropped Sherlock and charged at me. The car collided with his body, hooked it onto the hood and flung it back onto the road. It groaned and then settled, still on the ground. 

Sirens grew louder as screams and gasps overcame shock. I collapsed onto the pavement, triumph flickering before fear and grief overtook. 

 

*

 

 The kind policemen grilled me for two hours as if I had pushed ‘Jeremy Barry,’ even though there were eye witness accounts that I never touched him. Why did they even care? It was boring, to be honest, and Sherlock was collapsed somewhere, alone. Eventually they couldn’t charge me so I walked back through the reception, free.

 I looked up to see a slim figure with curly black hair grinning at me from between two uniforms. “Victor!” He giggled absurdly. I stared in horror.

“what’s wrong with him?”

“Cocaine abuse. I’d stay away from your friend if I were you - he’s a junky.”

They dragged him down the corridor, away.

 

*

 

 I sat on the roof, letting the rain pummel my face and wash away the tears. I had never felt so alone. I waited until a grey glow lit the clouds before flinging myself back inside and grabbing my bike. I sped past stationary vehicles and through red lights, slamming on the breaks after my tires grazed the - 

I flew through the door and ignored hurried footsteps at the sound. I stumbled up the stairs and onto his landing, collapsing through the door.  

 

*

 

Afterwards, when the anger had faded and the numbness thumped behind my temples, I threw myself back into trigonometry, Shakespeare and T.S. Eliot. I became a heartbroken romantic who read pretentious poetry and was deliberately unaware of pop culture whilst hiding simultaneous crushes on Simon Amstell and Ruta Gedmintas. I sat next to Sherlock everyday and I never once spoke to him. 

I submitted a portfolio primarily consisting of sketches of skinny curly-haired people and was offered an unconditional to the Ruskin School of Art on the 15th of January. I left for Oxford at sixteen. 

There’s a poem that appears in my head whenever I disembark at King's Cross upon visits home. I’ve never understood why, but I’ve been trying not to overanalyse everything. It’s what makes me an unbearably depressive person, Cassandra tells me. Anyway, the first verse always follows the ‘please mind the gap’ announcement:

 

_Let us go then, you and I,_

_While the evening is spread out against the sky_

_Like a patient, etherised upon a table;_

_Let us go then, through these certain half-deserted streets,_

_And muttering retreats_

_Of restless one night cheap hotels,_

_And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:_

_Streets that follow like tedious argument_

_Of insidious intent_

_To lead you to an overwhelming question…_

_Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”_

_Let us go and make our visit._

 

Until next time, 

VT

 


End file.
